Senior Moments: Garage clean out yields unexpected dirt

“This will probably be the last time we do this,” my husband said, as he dragged yet another box of memorabilia from the garage. “So let’s make sure we throw away everything we don’t want the kids and grandkids to see.”

The first item I plucked from a box marked “random stuff” was a book proposal I had written in 1979, about women’s sexual fantasies. This one is definitely off the kids reading list. Even George passed on it. I confess, I am reading it. But as soon as I finish, I plan to feed it to the shredder.

Further sorting revealed some dirty little secrets of my college days that the kids really don’t need to know. A dorm room inspection form alerted my roommate and me sternly, “If this doesn’t improve, I’ll send both of you to the President.” We had been warned about making our beds before, but this time the dorm mother noted she couldn’t even find the beds under our mess.

And a handwritten missive from the dean addressed my little habit of storing food on the windowsill outside my room. Actually, this was an inspired practice that I continued after college when I moved from Virginia to New York in the cold of winter, and lived in a women’s hotel sans refrigerator. The icy sill provided cold orange juice and milk for my tea every morning. No one can say I didn’t put my education to use.

Another interesting discovery was my affinity for variations of my name. Most of my childhood I was called “Patty” (with a Y). But I found letters addressed to “Patti” (with an I) and Pattianne. Even one to “Pate.” And then there was the envelope addressed to “Peaches.” George suggested that perhaps Peaches was my persona who wrote the sex fantasies manuscript.

Surely, I can’t be the only one with hidden dirt in my garage. Anybody else find a surprise they don’t want to leave around for the grandkids? Maybe a companion piece to my manuscript?